Every Moment In Between
by Lauryn Vi
Summary: As the seasons pass, the large oak tree on the Von Trapp grounds witnesses just what it means to love. (A Proboards prompt)


My contribution to the Proboards October prompt (seasons) - which really, only happened because I'd actually started this idea A YEAR AGO for last year's gift exchange (but then it somehow became decided non-Christmassy), and this prompt was just the kick in the behind I needed to turn it into a story. It was written over many short snatches of "free time", so I'm not thrilled with how things turned out - but posting is better than leaving it another year, right? ;) Would love to hear your thoughts!

Disclaimers: The tone of the story was inspired by the children's book "The Giving Tree". The scene with the cup by the lake was inspired by a scene from Anne of Green Gables.

* This story also can't make up its mind and alters between an almost-M and a TRIGGER (difficult issue) WARNING.

* * *

Every Moment In Between

 _Winter_

The big oak tree presiding on the Von Trapp estate had seen many winters, many Decembers, many Christmases.

Winters could be beautiful. From its vantage point between the villa and the lake, the oak could see mountains brushed in white, gloriously colorful winter sunsets reflected on the frozen water, and the thick layer of snow that always blanketed the ground and dressed bare tree branches after a storm.

But in between there were long, cold months where nights were almost twice as long as days, where the ground was frozen and living creatures asleep, where the clouds lingered low and heavy above a lonely December landscape. There were Christmases, of course. But even the oak could see it was more duty than celebration. The Von Trapp children would decorate the tree under the watchful eye of their Frau Schmidt, where it would sit undisturbed until Christmas morning when the children marched in to receive their presents. The Captain might hover over the scene for several minutes, a half-tolerant, half-pained expression on his face, before escaping back to his study.

It wasn't until the arrival of the Captain's young, vibrant wife that Christmas at the Von Trapp residence acquired the excitement and warmth of a cherished family holiday. Last Christmas was the first year the oak tree remembered being riveted by the scene through the Von Trapp sitting room window all through the month of December.

The tree watched the days slip by, filled with holiday fun and activity, like some sort of fascinating advent calendar. There was the day Maria Von Trapp directed the children in a spectacular holiday puppet show. Then the afternoon they had the most extravagant snowball fight, ending with the Captain's coat covered in fluffy white welts. And countless evenings spent in the sitting room, in the soft glow of the lavished tree's candles, doing nothing in particular besides enjoying one another's company.

This year, the oak had watched as the fir was brought into the room. The decorating of the tree was a hotly anticipated and boisterous affair, with Maria leading the charge. It was an evening filled with caroling and laughter, hot chocolate and peppermint candy sticks, with more than one ornament broken in the excitement, and ended only at the Captain's insistence that everybody be off to bed.

As the children filed out of the room, exclaiming over the finished product, the oak couldn't help a small sigh. How jaunty the Christmas tree looked, dressed up and twinkling, covered in precious heirlooms and handmade ornaments alike. It basked in the sense of belonging – a part of the light and warmth and love that had filled the night. The fir stood, tall, proud, and a little bit smug.

The Captain waited until his youngest daughter had skipped out of the room, blowing kisses the whole way, before gathering his wife into the circle of his arms.

"Oh, this is the loveliest tree, Georg," Maria leaned back against him, admiring their handiwork.

Georg murmured his assent into the base of her neck, where he had leaned to drop a light kiss. "Although I do believe you said that last year, too."

Maria laughed. "Let me enjoy every minute, Georg - you know I never had much of a Christmas as a child. Sometimes, I still can't believe I get to do this every year – with the children... and you."

"Hmm. Aren't you forgetting someone?" The Captain looked down, and Maria followed his gaze. She watched as his hands moved gently over her expecting belly. He let out a low chuckle as the littlest Von Trapp kicked at his touch. Then, he whispered something into her ear, his lips barely brushing her earlobe. He smiled in satisfaction the same moment his eyes darkened, as she shivered in response.

"Sit with me, Maria," he murmured.

The oak saw him lead her to the sofa, saw him lean over her, hands braced against the sofa's back on either side of her shoulders, and heard her sigh in yearning and surrender.

The oak looked away, smiling indulgently. The tree couldn't grudge the Christmas fir its moment of glory. It was true, Christmas was a very happy time of the year, filled with pure, old-fashioned joy – but the month was fleeting and the picture static. When the fir had been taken down from the room and the ornaments stored for the year, there would still be eleven months left, 334 days of the year. And the large oak tree would still be there, standing sentry over the villa grounds.

The seasonal fir could never see what the oak has seen. Could never witness the undulating and nuanced power of love as the oak has witnessed it.

* * *

 _Summer_

It was during the long summer days that the Captain fell in love with his wife.

He had noticed her, watched her, long before he knew he had fallen in love. From the moment she stepped across his threshold as the twelfth governess, he saw her. Perhaps the glances were mixed at first. Mixed with curiosity, exasperation. Then laced with admiration, gratefulness. Perhaps that was how the Captain missed the measure of longing, of desire – a measure that grew stronger with each passing day.

He may have been watching the children, but he saw her – sometimes playing a central role in their activities, sometimes hovering happily on the edges – and then, his gaze would linger a moment longer.

He may have been strolling about the grounds on a perfumed summer night, arm around his leading Viennese lady, engaged in lively banter, but his thoughts more frequently returned to something his Governess had said that day.

He may have been sitting at the dining table, watching the clock, as the family once again waited for Fraulein Maria to change into her dinner clothes – but could he have, perhaps once or twice, been undressing her himself in his mind's eye?

It wasn't until the evening when he reluctantly performed Edelweiss for his children – for her, his mind supplied – that he noticed her looking at him the same way he looked at her. And somehow, that night, he felt his reticence break in more ways than one.

As for her, perhaps she didn't understand the significance of that gaze. She couldn't have said why she wasn't able to tear her eyes away from him any more than she could have explained why she couldn't stop thinking about him all the evening. Of his voice, of course, low and velvety – but also the way his fingers moved so deftly over the strings, the way his lips moved when he sang, the way her entire body tightened in anticipation when he glanced at her.

It was late at night when, still sitting by her open window, she saw him walking alone in the gardens. She watched him. She had often seen him walking about the grounds in the evenings, usually in the company of the Baroness, sometimes with one or several of the children tagging along. Tonight he was alone, and she wondered why he seemed so restless. So preoccupied.

The moon was full, the breeze that blew through her window warm and fragrant. Perhaps there really was something that could be said for lunacy under a full moon. Or perhaps it was new dreams starting to take root. At any other time, she was sure she would have thought twice about whether the Captain would appreciate her company – or indeed, if it was even decorous for a governess to be seen with her employer on a midnight stroll.

She found him sitting on the stone bench under the big oak tree, its leafy branches dappling the moonlight overhead. He looked up in surprise as she approached – rather silently, she thought, but Captain Von Trapp had the ears of a cat. A brief gleam in his eyes – of astonishment, eagerness, and something else – caused her heart to beat irregularly in her chest, but it was quickly replaced a moment later by polite curiosity.

"Good evening, Fraulein," he said gravely.

"Good evening, Captain." Maria held back, suddenly uncertain. Perhaps it was lunacy, after all.

He stood up courteously. "Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head. He stepped forward, in a movement that suddenly seemed to bring him very close. "Neither could I."

Neither said what both were thinking in that moment. _I was thinking about you._

The Captain offered a slight smile to break the heavy pause. "I was just taking a break." He nodded over the grounds, and looked at her. "Finish the walk with me?" He fought the desire to offer his hand.

The feeling was magnetic. Maria stepped beside him – closer than she would have at any other time. Closer than she should have, perhaps. He resisted the urge to rest his hand on her lower back.

They started in the direction of the lake, the moon illuminating the path before them. The boughs overhead whispered with each breeze, and they could smell the very distinct scent of summer roses wafting from the gardens.

"Do you know, Captain," Maria said dreamily, "the smell of roses always makes me think of the Abbey."

The Captain looked at her sideways, suppressing a smile. "Why is that?"

"The nuns had a garden of roses that they tended to with great pride. Even in the years before I entered the Abbey, I would smell them from the other side of the wall. I'd always thought it was such a Heavenly scent."

He chuckled outright.

"What, Captain?"

He raised an eyebrow, still smiling broadly. "Surely even you must know, Fraulein, that the rose is the flower of love – the world has acclaimed it so for centuries."

Maria blushed, ducking away from him. "I wouldn't know, Captain," she mumbled.

The Captain looked like he wanted to say something, but checked the words on his tongue. Both grew very quiet, embarrassed and uncertain, stealing sidelong glances at one another. She thought the Captain looked very distinguished in the moonlight, and he thought that with her slim profile and ethereal blue dress, he had never seen anyone lovelier.

When they reached the end of the path, both hesitated for a long moment at the edge of the lake, neither quite ready to turn back to the house.

"Thank you, Captain," she said, finally. "For playing for the children tonight."

He smiled. "Well, you're quite persuasive, Fraulein. I'll have you know I haven't done that in a very very _very_ long time."

"They were thrilled. They couldn't stop talking about it all the while they were getting ready for bed – they thought you were spectacular."

"Hmm. And you, Fraulein? What did you think?" His voice was low, almost involuntary, and she couldn't be sure she heard him. She did not know if he was asking about the song or something else entirely.

They stared at each other. Imperceptibly, he leaned toward her, and she titled her chin to him.

But the moment was brief. The Captain's sudden chuckle sounded forced and foreign in the night. He stepped back in an uncharacteristically jerky move, and Maria shivered at the gust of wind that filled his place.

"A bit chilly tonight, isn't it?" He sounded nervous.

"It feels rather warm to me… actually…" Flustered, Maria scrambled to say something that wouldn't betray the traitorous beating of her heart.

"Are you thirsty?" The Captain was also struggling to say the right thing, to put them both at ease. "Have you ever drunk from this lake, Fraulein? The water comes from the streams in those mountains." He stepped past her to pull a piece of bark off the nearby birch, fashioning it deftly into a three-cornered cup. He stooped toward the lake to fill it, before turning to hold it out for her.

"Yes, Captain – very refreshing." Impishly, Maria grinned. "As I found out the time our canoe tipped."

He smiled sheepishly. "Ah-ha, I'd forgotten."

She accepted the cup, and although she wasn't thirsty, took a long sip before handing it back. She watched as he refilled it, and drank from it himself.

And suddenly, she couldn't breathe. He didn't know it. He couldn't have known it. But it just so happened that he had placed his lips exactly where she had had hers. Maria brought her fingers to her own lips. She wasn't aware of what that touch represented, but it made her gasp; confused, embarrassed, delirious with something she couldn't name. The Captain was watching her – not her eyes, but her lips. Maria snatched her hands away from her mouth.

"I suppose – it should really be time for bed…" Maria turned to flee. "Goodnight, Captain."

He watched her hurry away from him. She was already more than halfway back to the veranda when he had the presence of mind to murmur, "goodnight, Fraulein," and realized he had been holding his breath. Not only had he nearly kissed his governess – a woman who would one day become a nun – but he knew now that he would never have another conversation with her without wondering just how her lips would feel against his.

The thought filled him with a strange mixture of despair and elation. _God help me_ , he thought then. He pressed a hand over his eyes and shook his head, before turning to slowly follow his governess back into the house.

* * *

 _Autumn_

Maria sat up and peered out the bedroom window from her vantage point on the large master bed, just in time to catch the late morning sun burst from behind a fluffy cloud. A warm glow flooded the room, and illuminated the autumn landscape outside. From here, she could see the stately mountains reflected in the mellow lake, and the large oak tree that crowned the villa grounds was a myriad of browns and yellows and gold.

They say autumn is full of magic. Well, there was certainly _something_ in the air.

She smiled contently. In the background, she could hear the muffled spray of her husband's shower. Maria had been unreasonably nervous about the children's weekend away, camping with their school. It was the first time the youngest ones would be spending the night away from home. She knew Marta was afraid of the dark, and Friedrich hated being cold, and would Kurt and Brigitta miss their nightly ritual of sneaking into the kitchen to coax a snack from cook?

But when she woke this morning to Georg's sleeping body pressed against her back, the sudden realization that they had the entire weekend to themselves, _alone_ , sent a shiver of anticipation through her body. She felt the jolt directly to her core.

When Georg woke and found her looking at him, he threw a lazy arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. He kissed her, languidly, deeply – a promise that they had the entire morning before them and that the time would not be wasted. His eyes were dark as he looked at her and whispered 'good morning, love'.

"You knew!" She gasped, helpless and out of breath. "You knew this weekend was going to be like – like _this.._."

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Well, I can't say I felt sorry when I helped the children pack yesterday." He tugged her closer to him. "Nights. Some stolen moments during the day. It's not nearly enough, Maria…" He guided her leg around his hip, his thumb making circles on her thigh. "I want more…" His hand slid under her chemise. "I need you… always."

A low moan escaped her lips, and she rolled to straddle him, eagerly giving in to a morning of wild abandon and lovemaking.

It was almost noon when they finally got up, with the half resentful knowledge that they had arranged to have Heinrich and Ada Bergmann – business acquaintances of Georg's from Vienna – over for dinner.

But even after both were showered and dressed, and Maria's stomach was rumbling in the wake of a long forgotten breakfast, they still found themselves pressed together in an alcove just above the grand staircase. Maria had gotten her hands under his jacket and he was dragging his teeth lightly along her collarbone, murmuring about her alluring neckline. He landed a commanding nip at her neck, and Maria whimpered. Both almost missed the peeling doorbell, and only the sound of Franz's sharp staccato steps crossing the foyer brought them to their senses.

Reluctantly, they pulled apart. Georg straightened his tie while Maria's hands flew to her hectic cheeks. He reached over to adjust her necklace, giving her a teasing grin. "We'll continue this after, Maria, right where we left off." He ran a tantalizing thumb across her swollen lower lip. "Right here."

Maria suppressed another whimper, and gathered herself to follow her husband down the stairs.

Despite her hunger, dinner was a hopeless cause. Maria made a valiant effort to eat her meal, to keep up her end of the conversation, but she couldn't tear herself away from the vivid sensation of their stolen moment upstairs. She could _feel_ Georg's hand on her breast, his lips along her neck, and his warm breath tickling her ear. In her mind, she was reacting so viscerally she wondered how she was hiding it at all.

She both marveled and resented the easy way Georg exchanged jokes with the jovial Mr. Bergmann, and charmed his kindhearted wife. It was only when their gazes met that she heard his voice waver the slightest bit.

"Paris." she heard Georg say at one point. Maria had no idea what the preceding context had been, but her head snapped up at the word. She saw Georg looking straight at her. "My wife and I loved our time in Paris very much – wouldn't you say, darling? So much to explore?" There was a subtle purr to his voice that made her understand he knew exactly what he was doing.

Maria went wicked. After all, two could play this game. "Oh yes, dear. All those days – and nights. Like our evening at the opera… isn't that right?"

He knew the night she was referring to. They had spent the night at the Palais Garnier – him in a tux, her in a new Parisian dress that accented her figure – and _barely_ made it through the play. And _barely_ made it through the taxi ride back. And _barely_ made it up to their hotel room. And there she had discovered a new way of using her lips and tongue that had torn him apart and had him repeatedly moaning her name.

He stared at her, hard. The intensity and veiled longing in his gaze sent her toes curling. He let out a small exhale that narrowly avoided becoming a suppressed hiss of desire, before turning back to discuss the merits of Paris with his business associate.

After dinner, Georg and Heinrich disappeared into his study to conduct some informal business. Maria was just leading Ada into the sitting room when the other woman asked apologetically if there was somewhere she could lie down for awhile – the temperamental fall weather had given her a headache. Maria showed her to the guest suite, made sure she was supplied with ample water and tea, and then gladly escaped to the gardens. She liked Ada Bergmann very much, but her headache couldn't have come at a more opportune time. Maria couldn't imagine spending the afternoon keeping up any sort of coherent conversation.

At least outside, the chilly mistral wind of late autumn was a welcome relief and distraction. She forced herself to take a long walk about the grounds, forced herself to admire the colorful branches swaying over her head and the splendor of fallen leaves dancing along the paths. She _would_ expend her energy. She _would_ go back as the competent hostess of the Von Trapp estate. She would _not_ spend her entire time thinking about him –

"Long ordeal this afternoon, darling?" Before she knew it, Georg had found her sitting on the stone bench under her favorite oak tree. It was a half-secluded spot, with the gazebo on one side, and a clump of spruce on the other. Maria loved it, for she had very dear memories of an unforgettable confession in that gazebo, where Georg had first asked her to become his wife.

He brushed a few crisp leaves off the bench, sitting down casually next to her.

"What makes you think that?" Maria challenged impishly, drawing away from him and giving him her best stern look, as though every part of her being wasn't affected by how close he suddenly was.

"What?" Georg slid along the bench until their hips touched. He leaned in and whispered, "you weren't thinking about me as much as I was thinking about you?"

"Georg!" Maria swatted at his hands. "Where are our guests?"

"They left a few minutes ago. Heinrich says Ada's headaches are bound to get worse without medication, and they'd left them at the hotel. We looked for you."

"Oh, I'm sorry! I should have liked to say goodbye."

"I'm not." Georg leaned in again, and in a quick movement pulled her across his lap. "I don't know if I could have avoided taking you then and there if we did find you. What was it you were doing to me over dinner today, hmm?"

Maria protested even as she felt his growing desire, felt her own body respond as she realized that at last, they were alone again. "If I recall, _someone_ was the first to bring up our time in Paris. I just added in a few specifics."

Her triumphant smile was brief. She heard him growl low in his throat, before his lips crashed against hers, and the desperate pressure of his fingers against her shoulder blades made her gasp in pain and pleasure. She gave up all thoughts of playing coy, tangling her arms around his neck and demanding more by nipping his lower lip. He groaned as his lips parted to allow her tongue access. She pivoted so she straddled him, her skirt bunching at her knees. He gripped her hips as she rocked against him, feeling his need press against her warmth.

Swiftly, she undid his belt and zipper. His hands were under her skirt and moving urgently over the bare skin of her thigh. She stopped him just as he was about to slide a finger along her underwear toward her center.

"Here?" She whispered.

He pressed against her, there, and she moaned. "Now." The harsh word was barely audible through his ragged breaths.

He touched her, again, and she whimpered. Her inhibitions vanished and she took him in her hands. As she guided him to her and made them one, she forgot she was outdoors. She forgot the brisk autumn air in the overwhelming heat of where they joined. The sigh of the rollicking winds was lost in their escalating moans. Higher and higher they went, past the colorful leafy canopy, the warm autumn sun, straight into the heavens, until she could bear it no longer. She buried her face against his neck as she came apart, and felt him shudder and cry out her name.

They rested against each other as they calmed down, content and sated. Maria giggled, suddenly.

"What?" Georg murmured.

She pulled away to look at him. "I could get used to weekends like this."

He groaned. "Just remind me never to invite anyone else into the house." He kissed her tenderly. "It drove me crazy every minute I couldn't have you."

Maria's eyes twinkled. "Well Captain. There are still many minutes in this weekend left to go."

* * *

 _Spring_

It was spring at the Von Trapp estate. After an unseasonably mild winter, spring had crept over the grounds almost unnoticeably.

The ground had thawed. Forgotten pockets of daffodils planted long ago were beginning to bloom. By the veranda, a large plot of tulips whose bulbs had been carefully shipped from Holland the preceding fall and planted with great care under the watchful eye of Frau Schmidt were beckoning in the breeze. The trees on the grounds were sprouting a multitude of small leaves – not yet the dark green of maturity, but the bright, vivid, youthful green of spring. Down where the stream met the lake, the eggs the children had discovered several weeks ago had hatched into tiny baby ducklings.

Every evening, the Von Trapp children were out of doors, exploring, catching bugs, making new discoveries. Spring was a time of hopes, and promises of things to come.

But not for her.

Sometimes, it felt she might never hope again.

Georg found her outside one afternoon after returning from a morning trip into town, sitting at the foot of the large oak tree. Her knees were curled into her chest, head buried against her thighs, face covered by a limp curtain of hair.

Alarmed, he sprang forward. "Maria!"

She looked up, face swollen, with dull, red eyes that bore evidence of preceding tears.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was sharp with worry. "The nurse is beside herself that she couldn't find you." He dropped to his knees beside her.

"I'm – I'm sorry Georg," her voice was raspy. "I just needed to – to get out. To get away… I just couldn't stay in bed anymore. After you left, and the children were at school, I couldn't stop th-thinking…"

Maria broke down, her body shuddering in silent sobs. She had no more tears left.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Georg murmured, gathering her into him. She pressed her face against his chest. Her body felt so frail against his – so breakable. He suppressed his own shudder. "I shouldn't have left this morning… I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" He whispered over and over against her hair.

"It isn't fair, Georg… It isn't fair…"

"I know, darling, I know." He had survived two wars – seen countless injuries and deaths and senseless acts of violence. He had buried a beloved wife and nearly lost a daughter to the same illness. And still he couldn't understand what force it was that had taken away a much loved unborn child, leaving behind a grieving, broken-hearted young mother.

The new year had started with such bliss. He and Maria had been thrilled at the thought of their first child together. The children were excited. Liesl had rooted out their old bassinet from the garret, and Friedrich and Kurt had joined forces to assemble a rocker. The younger ones couldn't stop talking about the things they would teach the baby.

But then spring came, and with it, the torture and bleeding of a late miscarriage. It was cruel, Georg thought, to have any woman go through the pains of childbirth with the knowledge that there would be no healthy, living baby to hold at its end. He could only stand by, helpless to comfort, as his wife gripped his fingers in physical agony and mental anguish.

In the long, dark, weeks that followed, Georg remained at her side day and night, grieving with her, giving her space to grieve alone when he saw she needed it. Maria had put on such a brave font, doggedly enduring the long days of recovery in bed, and putting on a calm face for the children. There was only one time, he remembered, when she had turned to him from her seat by the window. "Can spring really come this year?" She'd asked, her voice hard and bitter. Yet as the weeks went by, her prolonged convalescence had even the family's optimistic doctor shaking his head.

Georg remembered the doctor's dire warnings about her fragile health as he cradled her against the damp spring grass, and shivered inwardly. Here she was, his passionate, spirited wife, broken at last under a burden no one should ever have to bear. Desperately, he wanted to protect her, to walk with her every step of this terrible road, shouldering her pain.

He stroked her hair, and heard her muffled voice against his chest. "I felt so guilty – maybe it was me. Maybe I did something wrong…"

"No, my love. Your body made a miracle," he whispered. "A miracle that was taken from us too soon."

"Or maybe I wasn't – I'm not meant to be a mother."

Georg could only shake his head, over and over. The thought that she could ever question her worth as a mother was unbearable to him. He wanted to tell her that she had become the best mother to his children he could have ever hoped for. That she had touched them all, challenged them all, inspired them all. The very idea that He could ever make her less of a mother was abhorrent. But the overwhelming emotions choked him, and he could only hope that she understood just how much she meant to him in the tight clasp of his arms against her and the tears wetting the top of her head.

Together, they clung to each other in the grass under the oak tree. Broken, but together. Lost, but buoyed by the other. And somehow, with each other, they found that perhaps, they could carry on after all.

Maria," he said gently after awhile, "we should go back inside. It's getting chilly and you shouldn't be out in the cold."

"I know," she whispered hoarsely. "I know how worried you've been about me, Georg. I'm sorry. I've been very selfish…"

"Don't say that, Maria."

"I have." She allowed him to help her to her feet. "There've been times these past weeks when I – I just didn't see how I could go on… I didn't want to go on… God would be ashamed of me…"

She lifted her big eyes to look at him. "And then I see you, and _feel_ you, beside me, loving me everyday – and I think that maybe I have the strength to get through it. Because of you."

"You _are_ strong. And courageous, and patient, and generous. Even in despair, you never stop giving. You're more than I could have ever asked for. You are my world, Maria," he said simply, cradling her face with his free hand.

"I do want to get better – for you, and for the children. I've resolved to."

She gave him a watery smile, and he returned it. "Here, lean on me love. Like this." Maria nestled against him, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and together, they walked back toward the villa.

* * *

 _Winter, reprise_

The oak tree sighed, the gentle snowflakes settling on its branches bringing it back to the present. That awful spring day had come full circle, as most things in nature were wont to do. It wouldn't be long after the holidays before the Von Trapp family would have a beloved new addition.

It would be another happy Christmas – filled with joy, excitement, and the simple happiness of being together. But the oak knew now that it was only a piece of the puzzle – a reflection of all the love that had filled the moments in between. For the oak had seen the breadth of love. Love, at its most hopeful, at its most euphoric, at its most trying. Love, in all its glory, and all its devastation. Love, in its most tentative moments, in its most dizzying moments, and in its strongest moments.

And then there were all those quiet moments the tree only recognized when it categorized the days one after another. The mornings where she would come up behind him on the balcony, wrap her arms around him, as they stood, welcoming the day together. The afternoons where he would find her reading by the edge of the lake, join her in the grass, and insist that the only way to read was to read together. The evenings where they would go for walks about the grounds after supper, and he would stop in the recesses of a tree's shadow, draw her toward him, and whisper that he loved her. Day after day, they reaffirmed their promise to God and to each other.

Yes, the oak tree thought to the seasonal fir, the scene through the Von Trapp sitting room window at Christmastime was undeniably warm, beguiling, and nearly perfect. The ornate edges and delicate shutters of the room's double windows even gave the picture a frame.

And yet, the tree knew that it had the better deal. After all, it was really the days, months, seasons in between, filled with all the idiosyncrasies of love, in moments big and small, year after year, which painted the brightest masterpiece.


End file.
